


Slowly Learning

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [29]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Broken Bones, Gen, Nightmares, reluctant bedrest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTORIntubation | Emergency Room |Reluctant BedrestHe knows he's lucky that he wasn't hurt worse than he was (if he hadn't managed to slow his fall and flip himself upright by grasping briefly at the railing, the impact could very easily have killed him), but that doesn't make the impending bed-rest any easier to stomach.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Slowly Learning

Malcolm has a love/hate relationship with his bed.

Mostly hate, if he's honest.

For the most part, crawling into his bed at the end of the day fills him with a gnawing trepidation, rather than the calm tranquility that most people feel when they sink into their mattress at night. He knows what waits for him when he slips into unconsciousness, and it makes his heart beat an uncomfortable staccato in his chest every time he pulls back his blankets and straps himself in.

The only time he seems to manage a restful sleep is when he's completely exhausted himself — mentally and physically — with a case. And even then, it's a toss up as to which way things will go.

He _might_ sleep through the night in a dreamless slumber that's almost closer to a coma than it is to sleep, dead to the world and so far in the grips of severe fatigue that nothing, even his broken and restless psyche, can reach him.

Or it can swing the other way, the exhaustion leaving his mind so agitated that his nightmares become infinitely worse, taking on an almost hallucinogenic aura that leaves him screaming and crying into the night.

So when he breaks both ankles after a suspect he'd been pursuing throws him off the fire escape of a fourth floor walk-up in Astoria, he's afraid the recovery might just be worse than the injury. 

Non-weight-bearing for six weeks.

Six weeks!

He knows he's lucky that he wasn't hurt worse than he was (if he hadn't managed to slow his fall and flip himself upright by grasping briefly at the railing, the impact could very easily have killed him), but that doesn't make the impending bed-rest any easier to stomach.

Jessica, of course, wanted him to stay at the Milton Estate, with a team of the regular housestaff and a rotation of nurses to help him through the worst of the recovery. As much as he appreciates the sentiment, the idea of spending six weeks in his childhood home — the backdrop for so many of his nightmares — filled him with so much dread that he was barely able to articulate a polite declination. His mother looked ready to argue, to _insist_ , but then caught a glimpse of his trembling hand and quietly let the subject drop.

Gil offered as well, and Malcolm truly considered it, but decided in the end that being in the comfort of his own home would help him heal faster than anything else.

Besides, subjecting Gil to six weeks of being woken in the middle of the night by panicked screaming seemed entirely unfair.

And so he finds himself at home, in bed, two weeks after being released, ready to pull his hair out and wondering if this might actually be how he loses the last threads of his sanity.

There's a wheelchair for him to use, but he hasn't quite figured out how to get into it on his own without using his feet, since it has to stay on the side of his loft that's a step down from his bedroom. Which means he's trapped in bed until Gil gets there after work.

Or he has to call someone for help.

He's never been good at asking for help.

But the problem is, surprisingly, less that he's trapped and bored, and more that he hasn't really slept in days and being stuck in his bed keeps making him doze off. Which should be a good thing.

It isn't. 

The nightmares plague him every time he closes his eyes, jerking him back to reality with a shot of adrenaline that leaves him shaky and gasping for air and feeling infinitely worse than he did before he started dozing off.

He needs to get out of this bed.

He unclips his restraints and tries to shake off the vestiges of his last nightmare, more convinced than ever that he needs to move. So he shimmies over to the edge of his bed and carefully lowers his hands to the floor. He walks himself forward like that until only his knees are left on the mattress and then he slowly — and so, so carefully — brings one leg at a time off the bed, supporting all of his weight on his knees to make sure his broken ankles don't support a single pound.

It hurts like a mother fucker regardless. 

By the time he's on the floor next to the bed, his breath is coming in short pants and his cheeks are stained with tears that he just can't contain. He lays there, face down on the floor with his fists balled so tight that his nails leave deep indents in his palms, waiting for the worst of the pain to pass.

It's at that point that he hears a key in the lock of his door.

Of course.

"Jesus, Bright. What happened?" Gil's worried voice reaches him a fraction of a second before the man himself 

"I'm fine," Malcolm tries but it sounds like a lie even to him.

"Right. That's why you're on the floor, crying?" Gil says, his obvious exasperation tinted with concern as he gently helps Malcolm roll onto his back. "What was the play here, kid?"

Malcolm huffs out a sigh and tries not to be too embarrassed as Gil slides one arm under his knees and the other around his back, pushing to his feet with Malcolm in a bridal-carry secure in his arms.

"Not the bed," Malcolm hurries to say when Gil takes half a step towards the bedroom. "Please."

Gil gives him a questioning look but doesn't hesitate to turn to the living room, placing Malcolm down on the couch like he's made of glass, then propping a cushion beneath his calves to keep his feet from resting on the couch. Once Malcolm is comfortably situated, Gil sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, arching an eyebrow as he waits for an answer as to what the hell just happened.

"What are you doing here?" Malcolm asks instead. It's just after lunch and Malcolm wasn't expecting to see Gil until the end of the day, when they had plans for takeout and a game of chess.

"Thought I'd swing by and see if you needed anything," Gil says pointedly, pausing a beat and looking at Malcolm expectantly. When no answer is forthcoming, he presses on, "Kid, this isn't working. You look like you haven't slept in weeks and I come in to find you sprawled out and hurt on the floor?"

Malcolm is about to protest that it's not that bad (it _is_ that bad, and he knows it), but Gil's got that look on his face that says that he's made a decision and intends to see it through.

"You're coming to stay with me," Gil nods to himself as he says it, firming his resolve to counter any argument Malcolm might make.

Malcolm, though, knows deep down that Gil is right; he needs help.

He sucks in a deep breath and licks his lips, building the nerve to say what he knows he needs to say. He may not know how to ask for help just yet, but he's slowly learning to accept it when it's offered.

"That'd be great, Gil. Thank you."


End file.
